


Brothers In Arms

by springburn



Series: The Thick of It mini-fics [39]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Past Abuse, Secrets, childhood recollections, relationships, sexually explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm and Jamie are enjoying a quiet beer in the garden. Jamie lets something slip which effects Malcolm profoundly. He turns to Sam for help and comfort.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers In Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt by @petersgal   
> Sorry it's been a long time coming but I've been so busy!! 
> 
> "Malcolm and Jamie are having a quiet drink in the garden when Jamie tells malcolm something that hurts him to the core..leave this with you then...x"
> 
> I gave a lot of thought to this story.   
> I had the explicit scene written first, but then wasn't sure how to weave the story around it.   
> I very much wanted to give some of my take on Malcolm and Jamie's joint past. The bond between them and the reasons why.   
> It has been something I've always felt for years, that Malcolm had a bad experience at some point as a youngster, which made him so mistrustful. But also that he struggled against his early home life to make his way in the world, against the odds.   
> Also how he was always scathing of those who had it easy on the way up.

BROTHERS IN ARMS.

Something had happened. 

Sam knew by his clouded expression as soon as he and Jamie came in from the garden. His face was strained, taut and furrowed.  
The weight of the world suddenly bowing his shoulders.  
Jamie looked desolate.   
As if he'd just confessed to murder. Shooting glances at Malcolm from under his lashes. A tragic, searching gaze, almost of fear. Silently asking for forgiveness.  
His baby blue eyes misted, moist. 

Younger only by five years, but looking ridiculously good for his age. A boyish quality, slow to fade, making Malcolm look almost a grandfather in comparison. Always he looked up to his older friend. An unspoken respect and deep attachment, that went way beyond mere friendship.   
They were brothers, compadre's, which made Malcolm's look of betrayal all the more stabbing and painful to Jamie. 

Their farewell was a curt one. Clipped and brief.   
Ellie and Sam looked at each other questioningly, remaining mute, eyebrows raised.   
Sam shrugged her shoulders, made a 'call me' signal to her friend, as she ushered them out with a kiss, and closed the door. 

Malcolm went straight upstairs without a word.   
Brooding and morose. 

He would tell her, when he was ready, all she had to do was wait. 

Pushing him would clam him up tighter than a drum, he might keep this up for several days, or maybe only a few hours.   
Just depended.   
Sam would be patient, serene and calm and, ultimately, stoical in the face of her husband's impending revelations. Be it angst or guilt, anger or misery, in the end, it would come out, and she would listen, and she would love him.   
He trusted her now. Knew he was loved, knew that whatever happened, she was going nowhere.   
It had taken him a long time to reach this point, but he was finally sure of her, it was only a matter of time before he'd tell her what'd so troubled and upset him. 

 

oOo

Still his mind was in turmoil.   
Thoughts he'd successfully compartmentalised, now raked up, reopening a wound he thought finally healed.   
The scar bleeding afresh.   
An ache, a deep and suppurating sore. A canker that blighted his entire existence.  
Buried for the longest time, only now was he dealing with it, with Sam's help.   
Just recently had he and his sister Nancy, discussed the roots of this viscous poison, this acid that burned through both their lives, and begun, finally, to learn to lay it to rest. 

He dreamed of himself as a child, seeing his mother, in tears in the scullery, she was on her hands and knees with a bucket and scrubbing brush.   
A little scene that came back to him, like an old black and white movie.   
Her plaid skirt, worn, but scrupulously clean, a pinny tidied around her waist with a pocket for a handkerchief in the front bib.   
The cameo broach she sometimes wore, when it wasn't at the pawn shop....her hair, greying, tightly wound into a bun. Kneeling, both hands gripping the back of the wooden brush, a rhythmic motion as she scoured the flagstones, the water grey and murky. Her hands raw and red. 

Her eyes the same. 

She'd been crying, but she tried to hide it from her young son.   
Wiped her face on her apron. "Must be the dust, pet."   
A livid bruise on her cheek where she'd 'walked into a door'. 

She walked into a lot of doors. 

He must have been ten, maybe eleven.   
A quiet withdrawn child, especially this last year. Gawky and thin, a shock of wild brown hair, two scabby knees, short trousers, elastic snake belt, a shirt with the collar and cuffs turned, to make it last longer, devilishly clever, sharp and quick.  
He didn't go to Mass anymore, she thought he did, but he didn't.   
He bunked off instead, but he was no delinquent.   
Saved his collection money, to buy books, and art materials.   
Hid it under a floorboard in his little room, in a jam jar.   
Fucked if he was going anywhere near Father O'Brien again.   
Not after the last belting his father had given him, for what misdemeanour he couldn't even remember. Not after he'd blubbed during confession, and the priest had asked to see his marks, taken him into the vestry at the back, undressing him........  
Not after.......not after..........  
Malcolm woke with a gasp and a feeling of suffocation, the feel of a hand on the back of his neck, another on his rump, there were tears in his eyes. 

 

oOo

He raised himself.   
Velvet darkness, a muffled silence, broken only by her gentle breathing.   
Enveloped in an ice cream softness which soothed and eased the cares of the day. Her head resting on the downy pillow, hair spread out, silken and sweet smelling.   
Sam dozed.   
Wrapped in the comfort that only being with Malcolm could bring. 

Now he was spooned against her, his favourite position, legs tucked up in the curl of her own.   
His lean frame pressed into her, she could feel him, knobbly knees, the hairs on his legs.   
Cock against her backside.   
The warm ripple of air as he exhaled, it gave her goosebumps.   
He moaned slightly, a little whimper to tell her he was awake, that he was needing something. 

Her love. 

The feel of his breath teasing her neck as he craned his head forward, peering over her shoulder, trying to gauge whether her eyes were closed or open but unable to see in the dim light.  
A trail of his fingers, from that peachy shoulder and down her arm, as he rested up on one elbow behind her, the caress so sensual, so gentle, that she stirred involuntarily.   
Calculated to have the desired effect.   
"You awake?" That throaty scots burr made her shiver.   
"Mmm! Am now!"   
The stubble on his chin tickled her as he began to kiss where his hand had just been, then down her back, between her shoulder blades, shifting himself nearer and bringing a lazy arm over her hip, his hand splayed across her belly.   
Circling, then drawing a line slowly back again, over her hip bone to the cheeks of her beautiful arse, kneading the flesh there, teasing her apart, at the same time as his mouth found the place just under her earlobe, which made her squirm with delight.  
"Malcolm!" She whispered, "how do you do this to me?"   
"Because I know what you like." He rasped.   
Parting her legs, with a subtle determination as his fingers quested between them from behind, finding the right spot, causing tendrils of arousal to course through her, as he expertly moved against her clit. She could feel the twitch of his member as it hardened in anticipation, the little puffs of air through his mouth as his lips moved delicately across her skin.   
Those clever digits, applying just the right pressure, one inside her, then another, whilst turning her just enough to reach her breast and close his mouth over it, drawing it in, suckling, his tongue flicking against the nipple, sending shots of fire through her whole body.   
Already she was losing control, pushing back shamelessly against his hand, his chest now tightly pressed close to her spine, begging for more from him, relishing every sensation.   
"Oh, God Malcolm. Want you.....please!" Barely able to articulate, driven almost to a peak of madness by those long elegant fingers.   
He pulled her as close as possible, easing his throbbing cock between her thighs, entering her there and then. She parted enough to allow him access, a gasp of pleasure at feeling his length from that angle, lying on her side, him behind her, cupping the roundness of one breast in his eager palm.  
Sam grabbed the hand, bringing it up to her mouth, sucking diligently on those fingers, tasting herself, moaning at the sheer ecstasy of each thrust as he pressed inside her fully, withdrawing momentarily then pushing back, filling her, stroking that sweet spot until she began to fall apart.   
Willing him on, pleading him for more, harder, faster, so close......so close.   
His head dipped down against her shoulder, teeth marking the flesh there as he came.   
With every pulse she clawed at the sheet underneath her fingertips, seeking purchase, to force herself backwards onto him, taking him as deep as she could, crying out as her own release came.   
Continuing to surge inside her, his penis milked of every last drop, by the contraction of her inner walls.   
That sense of freedom, of falling but into blissful abandon, aching yet fulfilled.  
The little death.   
His movement stilled. Leaning against her. Muscles relaxed, limp, spent.   
She reached to touch his head, the scrape of her nails smoothly on his scalp, down the softness of his cheek.   
Chest rising and falling with the effort, a gradual easing down, mouth open, words of endearment, whispers of love, as he softened inside her, and pulled away.   
The sense of loss she always felt as they separated.   
"God, Malcolm, I love you."   
She twisted in his embrace, held there, tight and close.   
He was wet against her, with her own juices, she with his. But neither cared, the contact was everything.   
The postcoital haze of sheer adoration.   
Massaging across her back, little kisses into her hair, searching for, and finding her mouth.  
After-burn, all part of the bonding process for Malcolm, he loved the come down almost as much as the act itself, the cuddling, the closeness, the skin on skin.   
"Oh, my Sam, my Sam." He breathed, pulling back, "how I fucking love you and how I love fucking you!"   
Winding himself around her, those sinewy limbs, pulling her into his body.   
She surrounding him in turn.  
Breathing in the scent of her, her essence. Every inch of her, that he worshipped heart and soul, with everything he was.  
For him, there could never be too much of her.....never.   
He loved her with every fibre of his being, making love to her was his life force. It fuelled him. Kept him sane.   
Nourished him and gave him succour.   
Sam was his rock, her strength was his port in the storm.   
Who could ever have too much of that? 

They slept.   
Dreamless, comfortable, safe.   
Malcolm had all he needed right here. 

oOo

Staring up at the ceiling. A deep huffing sigh.   
Pushing her hair back from her eyes, Sam woke, turned to face him, placed a little kiss on the end of his beaky nose.   
"Okay sweetie?" She enquired sleepily.   
"You know I'm not okay."   
"I'm listening........"  
"I don't know where to begin......it's all so......so........I don't know! Fucked up. Everything." He shifted onto his side, his eyes scanning her face, he looked so confused, hurt and lost.   
"Start at the beginning, best place, as the song says!"   
"Eh?"  
"Doh Re Mi?........never mind.......just tell me!" 

His face so stricken, as he mulled over the right words.   
Where to begin? How to even make sense of it all, after all these years.   
His mother, God in heaven! How had she coped?   
It was almost more than he could bear to think about, and he'd far rather have remained in blissful ignorance.   
Then he realised, how awful it must have been for Jamie, carrying this knowledge ever since he was a small child.  
A terrible secret, what a thing to burden one so young with!   
He was distraught, not for himself, but for his best friend. 

oOo

Two snot faced boys.   
Permanently grubby, one protecting the other. Jamie was always in scrapes one way or another. How many times did Malcolm's quick mind and clever tongue, talk them out of trouble.   
Always looking out for him, even though he was bullied himself, kept them away from wee Jamie, took them on.   
Playing cowboys and Indians, on the waste ground behind the tentaments. Where the rosebay willow herb grew in proliferation, tall pink spires nodding in the breeze.   
A den made of concrete blocks and corrugated iron, part of an old Anderson shelter.   
Their guns were bits of wood, cut to shape, arrows whittled with a trusty pen-knife.   
Row upon row, floor upon floor, so many children.   
Lads and lassies, all thrown in together. 

Watching their Da's setting off for the shipyard, each carrying their metal tea kettle, and sandwiches wrapped in grease proof, when the klaxon sounded in the morning and evening for the start of a shift. The tramp of hobnail boots on cobbles.   
Pay day. A brown envelope. Mam given her housekeeping and Da off down the boozer.   
His mam would send him off to run errands, try to keep the wee boy out of his way, or make sure he was tucked up in bed, especially when she knew it was nearly closing time.   
Rolling in, unsteady on his feet, belligerent, violent. If she was lucky, he'd fall asleep, if she wasn't, he'd beat the living shit out of her.   
Malcolm would put his hands over his ears, dive under the covers, try to blot out the sound.   
On several occasions she bore the telltale signs the next day. Nothing was ever said.   
If she got it, it meant her son escaped. That was what mattered, because seeing him with that belt struck fear into her heart, knowing what it meant, and her Malcolm was a sweet boy, affectionate, no trouble, just in the way. 

Mrs Tucker and Mrs McDonald were close friends.   
Jamie's mam knew.......oh yes, she knew!   
Knew Tucker for the cruel sadistic bastard he was.  
She felt sorry for the scrawny wee Malcolm and his timid scrap of a younger sister.   
Nance and Jamie were the same age, she'd hoped they might marry.   
Daft really.   
So it was that Malcolm Tucker was welcomed into the McDonald household on numerous occasions, out of harms way.   
It was odd, how it began.   
He could see her now, his mother, dressed in her Sunday best. Hair in a plait. A shopping basket over her arm.   
"You'll be away to wee Jamie's after school, I'll fetch you later."  
Little did he know, or even suspect.   
That evening stuck in his mind for some reason, when she came to fetch them, she and Jamie's mam had talked in hushed whispers in the back yard. By the coal bunker.   
His mam had been crying, Malcolm could tell.   
Da didn't come home that night, or any night for eight months.   
"Away to the Tyne. Working on a big liner." That's what she'd said.   
Nance and Malcolm had been glad. It was precious time when they relaxed. But their mother struggled.   
Little were they aware, but kind neighbours helped keep them fed, they were told he was on the Tyne, but most thought he'd simply buggered off and left her.   
No welfare, no benefits, how on earth had she managed?   
Kept her children in the dark, Malcolm especially, bright as he was.   
Not an inkling.   
Then there were the days she'd go off, as soon as they'd gone to school. Jamie's mam took care of them both, took them in. Showed them what a proper family was like.   
Late evening before she returned to collect them, trotting hand in hand through the darkened damp streets, homeward bound.   
The house so cold, they had to spread overcoats on the bed for extra weight. 

oOo

Now he knew.   
Because Jamie had let it slip.   
Forty odd years, never a mention. Sharing a couple of bevvies in the garden.   
Joking about the past.   
A flippant comment, said in a moment. 

"God, yeah, I remember when we had you round to tea when your Da was inside!" 

Silence. 

"What the fuck?" Malcolm turned to his friend, puzzled. 

"Nothing mate......I didn't mean....it's nothing......really!" 

"That's not nothing! What do you mean? Explain for fucks sake?" 

Jamie's head in his hands.  
Almost in tears, but not in shame, no, it was pure relief.......finally the massive weight of this secret could be shed. 

 

He'd found out by accident, he said, had overheard his parents talking. Had challenged his mother.  
"What does it mean? Being inside? Has Malc's Da done something bad?"   
He'd received a hefty cuff round the ear.   
Told he must never, ever tell.   
Never.   
That if he did, they'd know it was him. Because no one else knew.   
It was years later, when they were teenagers, before he left home for the seminary, they'd told him the rest.   
Assault, they said. Battered the crap out of some itinerant stranger, in a drunken rage.   
Not someone from round here, that's why it was still a secret, in a place where everyone knew everyone else it would soon have come out, but no.....not a word was said.   
No one any the wiser.   
The shame of it. The stigma, it would have destroyed them all, in that judgemental community. 

He'd had his day in court, was banged to rights. He'd been seen. Open and shut.   
Eight months, lucky it wasn't longer, teach him a lesson the judge said.   
Except when he returned home things were ten times worse.   
No one escaped his wrath. Now Nancy was in danger too.   
A constant strain, always on eggshells.  
A family terrorised. Brutalised.   
Until the day Malcolm finally stood up to him.   
At fifteen almost at his full height, wiry and strong.   
The day he stepped between his parents, to protect his mother and sister, was knocked to the floor, but struggled to his feet, mouth bleeding, lip split, his mam weeping, wringing her hands.   
"Fists up Malcolm, defend yourself like a man. The man you purport to be. Fucking pathetic wee runt!" His father laughed at him.   
Enough of a man to pass muster at any rate.   
A right hook floored him. That was it. The last time.   
Mere months later Malcolm left, for good.   
Never to return.   
His father was broken. He wilted and died not long after, liver cancer, he'd had it for years, untreated. 

 

oOo

Malcolm turned towards his wife, so much in those eyes.   
The little boy was still there, in those steely depths.   
So much pain.   
"Your mother was very brave Malcolm, and very strong."   
He laughed bitterly.   
"My mam was a fool, she should have left him, but you didn't do that in those days, you just didn't. You stuck it out, through thick and thin. Her life must have been a fucking nightmare."   
"She couldn't leave Malcolm, she had to protect you and Nancy, any mother would do that. If she'd left you would have been at his mercy. She stayed because of you."  
"I remember when we used to go round Jamie's, it always seemed so calm there, at home life was like living in the middle of a smouldering volcano, any moment there could be an eruption, at the McDonald house it was always quiet, Nance and I used to speak in a whisper!"   
"You need to call Jamie, first thing in the morning, talk to him, imagine what he must be feeling ?Poor man, all these years. What a legacy, what a dreadful thing for a child to have to carry with them. It's really sad, Malcolm, and Jamie must be so upset. You must tell him it's okay. To forget it. That you forgive him, that it doesn't matter any more, so that he can let it go."  
"I will. I promise. I'll have to tell Nance too! God! I wonder how she'll take it." 

"It'll keep till morning."  
Sam reached for his hand, entwining their fingers together, bringing them to her lips and kissing the knuckles there.   
"No wonder my mam was always so terrified of me being in trouble with the Po Lis. She used to beg me to stay out of trouble. Not run with the wrong crowd. She was always admonishing me to be good, not fight, not nick sweets from the shop.  
"Be a good wee boy Malcolm, you're clever, one day you'll make your mammy proud."   
That's what she used to say, when I first worked at Number Ten, she told all the neighbours.   
"My boy works in Downing Street. With the Prime Minister! God rest her soul!" 

Sam lay back against the pillows, cradling her husband in a warm snuggling embrace.   
His head against her breast, one leg draped over her body.   
The sigh he gave was one of deep contentment, tinged with sadness.   
Nuzzling closer, a needy moan leaving his lips. He raised his head and trailed his mouth lazily across hers, wet and sloppy.   
"Fuck, Sam!" He breathed. "She never had what I have.....my mother. Or what Jamie has for that matter. And I just fucked off and left them without a second thought. She was always pathetically pleased to see me when I went home, what a cunt I was. It wasn't her fault, yet I half blamed her. What more could she have done? She sacrificed everything for me. Fuck it all. I feel like blubbing."   
"Then do it, Malcolm, there's no one to hear you but me. It might make you feel better. I would lay bets that Jamie feels just the same this night."  
No more words came from him, none were needed, just an occasional sniff, and a tremble in the shoulders, the skin on her stomach wet, where he'd sunk down, his face pressed against her navel, arms around her. Like a wounded animal.   
She petted him, offered him comfort, she loved him.   
He began to heal.


End file.
